


When This is All Over...

by green_grrl



Category: Extremely Dangerous (1999)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neil goes by Spanish John now, POV Alternating, POV First Person, obscure Sean Bean movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-26
Updated: 2005-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_grrl/pseuds/green_grrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When this is all over...." "I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen _Extremely Dangerous_ , this won't make any sense. None. Really. _And_ you'll spoil yourself. Back away and just go get the damn movie already.
> 
> Thank you to msb66 and sindahise for betaing.

This mobile’s good for one more call before I’ll have to ditch it.

I’ve rung DCS Wallace and thanked him for letting me visit their graves, Alison and Sarah's. I visited Edith Ramsay's, too, poor thing. I called Wallace to apologise for the trouble he’ll have, what with me being an escaped prisoner. He said not to worry about it, that cleaning up the mob in Manchester looks good enough on his record that he’ll live it down. Says he’s glad enough to be getting back to the occasional stolen sheep. After these last few years, maybe the hills of Scotland are what I need as well, but when it comes down to it I’m a city lad. I don’t know what I’d do with all that silence, no distractions from my memories.

Danny Ford was a good sort as well. I apologised for breaking into his home and beating the shit out of him, but he spent as much time apologising to me for sending me away in the first place. I seem to have convinced him that I know he was just doing his job, and he insists he understands I was desperate to find out who did my wife and kid. That he’d probably do the same in my place. So I guess we’re quits.

He also made it pretty clear that CPS might want me in, but that it wasn’t exactly a departmental priority. Which is good to know, but I still can’t be stupid about broadcasting my whereabouts. So just one more call on this phone.

“Minicabs”

“Skankie, ‘sthat you?”

“Hey mon.” I can hear the pause as he bites off asking where I am, and instead tries, “How you be, mate?”

“I’m doing all right. Is AK around?”

“No, mon. He’s still staying low with his sister, nobody knows where. He's called in to check up though.”

“That’s probably just as well, until we know all Joe and Elgin’s boys are rounded up or gone for good.”

Skankie gives a bitter laugh. “Mon, I don’t even know if that would convince him to come in.” Sounding serious. “He may not ever come back to this office.”

"Shit." I let the familiar feeling of guilt settle over me, as comfortable as an old sweater by now. I had got my wife and little girl killed through my work. Silly, kind Edith Ramsay, too. Now the only friend I had in the world--the only person who believed in me through the worst time of my life--I’d made him a target, got him caught up in a living nightmare, and possibly ruined his business.

“How are you, Skankie? You doing all right?”

“Yeah, no worries, mate. You know how how Ali Khan’s the biggest guy in his family? Well I’m the smallest one in mine. I got my brother hanging out here with that shotgun of AK’s. We taking care of business just fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it, mate. Just watch yourself. Now that Joe and the boys are out of the picture, all the amateurs are going to come out, try to take advantage.”

“I know, mon, I know. That’s what I got Marvin here for.”

“Take care, Skankie. Tell AK I said hello if you talk to him.”

“All right mon, you take care too. Like the mon says, ‘Go with Jah.’”

I hang up the phone and just rest my head against the top of the steering wheel, waiting for the sadness to ebb away before I get moving again. I can't believe how much I miss that dingy little office, Skankie. Ali Khan. How much I really miss Ali Khan.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My first foray into the outside world, I bring back coffees and the paper to my sister. Even though we're well hidden from anywhere the mob might find us, she's too nervous to go out. I mean, I'm the one who got my head beat in and my fingers broken, but they scared the hell out of her, and she didn't have an avenging angel sweep in to rescue her. Avenging angel, that's really what Spanish was like. (Yeah, I know, "Neil"--he's still Spanish John to me.) Who knew that a Pakistani Muslim could have a blond-haired, green-eyed angel?

I give Anesha the bits of the paper with the entertainment and fashion and agony aunt column, while I settle in at the table to take in the news for the first time in a few days. The whole Neil Byrne story is still the big attraction so I'm catching up.

The good news is that scary bastard Joe Connor is dead--God I'll never forget those cold eyes. And the police have really cleaned up the mob, several levels deep. It looks like they got all the paperwork in the raid, too, so they'll have these bastards dead to rights.

Oh, I can't believe it. Next article, here's the whole story of what Joe and Elgin and that MI5 guy did to Spanish's family--the set-up he got blamed for. I feel sick, drop the paper, have to lay my head on my arms. How is it even possible for people to be so cruel? How can Spanish survive that kind of pain? I can't imagine what this good-humoured, helpful--well just the best mate you could ever ask for, really--I can't imagine what he's gone through.

There was something else in the paper about him--there, that side column...and you've got to be joking. I drop the paper in horror again. CPS want to bring him up on charges for doing Elgin? _Elgin?!_ That sick bastard who was _torturing_ me at the time?! According to the paper Spanish has run again, and good on him for that. I need to talk to this DI Danny Ford because I am just shaking with anger now.

First, though, I tell Anesha that we're all right, that all of Joe's lads are rounded up.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I drive down to Rotherham, park across the street from the shop on Westville, and wait. Eventually I see him go in, a smaller, slightly older version of Ali Khan. I give him a half hour to settle in to work, then ring the store from the new mobile.

"Mr. Kureishi, this is a friend of Ali Khan's. I was wondering if you would be able to get a message to him."

Immediate suspicion on the other end. Of course. "I would have no idea who Ali Khan is or where he would be."

"That's all right, mate, I don't want to know. " Not true--of course I'd love to know, to talk to him, to see him, but I want him to be safe even more. "Look, if for any reason your brother gets in touch with you, could you just tell him a friend said 'Vaya con Dios' and that he can call this number." I give him the number for this mobile, then end the call. And go to look for a place to go to ground and wait.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I force myself to wait the extra ten minutes it takes to leave the flat and get to a pay phone. But I'm racing. My asshole brother (God be with him) had Spanish's number for three days--three days!--before he told me. Then I force myself to calm down before dialing. Even still, my hands are trembling.

"Spanish, how are you mate?"

"AK, thank God! Are you all right? Are you safe?" He's the one who's on the run and he's more worried about me than himself.

"Spanish, I'm fine, man. I'm fine. My sister's fine--they've had us down to the station and we've identified all of Connor's men that, that, you know..." I'm trying to keep cool, because it's all over, but I can't quite pull it off. It had been a nightmare seeing those faces again, the men who had tortured me, threatened Anesha.

"Aw Christ, I'm so sorry AK, I'm so sorry." His voice is so quiet and sad. "I can't believe I got you involved in all this. You're the only friend I had, and what happened to your sister, you..." His voice breaks on the last word, and I can't take it, hearing him upset like this over what happened to me--Spanish who was never afraid of anything that could happen to himself.

The first day he walked into the minicab office I appreciated his cool, the way he just waited me out, me with the shotgun right on him. I liked the way he got things done, calm and collected. I didn't push, and I think he appreciated that about me. And reliable--I never had to worry about him missing a shift, or trying to cheat on fares, or getting caught driving drunk. We fell into an good rhythm, a little dry humour, easy company. So yeah, I liked him, liked having him around. Now I think what the rest of his life was like at that time, the horrors he was dealing with....

When I fell in love with him was the night those two punks tried to rob the office. I mean, yeah, "my hero" and all that, but that wasn't it. It's when he stopped me shooting that kid. I was blind angry at the time. All I can remember about it, now, is the look he gave me after, as he held the muzzle of the shotgun up. With that one look, I knew that he knew that killing a man would break me. That for me taking a human life would be an unforgivable sin against God. He _got_ me, and he wouldn't let me do it. He didn't just save my life, he saved my soul.

So how do I explain to him now that he has nothing to apologise for? That I love him and would have done anything, gone through anything to protect him, and willingly? I can't tell him that, good Northern bloke, married, father, all that. Shit. So... "Look mate, it's all right. I know it wasn't you. Anesha knows it wasn't you. It was those bastards in the mob. All you ever did was try to do your job, to send them down. You've been done a lot harder by them than I have. I'm fine. Everything's okay. No permanent damage." Just sending the sentences out, one after the other, hoping he'll grab on to them.

Silence on the other end, just his breath growing steadier, but at least he's not frantically apologising any more. I get more casual, back to my usual dry irony so he _knows_ it's all right. "I'm back at work now. Minicab patrons wait for no man. It's not the same without you around, though. Marvin's not nearly as pretty." Hope that passes for idle banter.

A pause. "'Ey, of course not, no one's as pretty as I am." Thank God, I can actually hear that wry smile of his over the phone.

Don't I know it. "Don't I know it. Business has fallen off drastically without your irresistable mug bringing in the punters." Back to normal, so it's okay to get a little serious. "Are you all right? Do you need anything?" Stitch you up while you're shirtless, mate? And stop it right there, Ali Khan, it was bad enough at the time with the pain and blood, and desperate to take care of him, but also so distracted by the tattooed arm, that muscled torso, small nipples you still see when you close your eyes and reach your hand down....

"I'm all right. I'm not too far from a little shop you told me about once, where a man works all the hours God gave him." He's in Rotherham, then, his hometown.

"All right mate, good to know. But I'm not being careless, Spanish--I'm on a pay phone. I'm hoping it'll get sorted, but you stay careful, too. You're still wanted. Keep in touch, though. It's good to hear your voice."

"Hey, mate, as long as I'm wanted by you." Delight and hope take over for just a moment before I snap back to reality. If only he knew.

"What are mates for, Spanish. Any time, any where. I mean it." I _really_ mean it. "Vaya con Dios."

"You too, mate. You too."

I hang up very, very slowly, and lean my forehead on the handset.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Two weeks I survive on phone calls, every other day because I don't want to overwhelm him, be too needy. Two weeks I'm calling Ali Khan, where we chat and laugh like always and he's just the greatest but then I hang up and just want to collapse at losing him for another 48 hours, at not being able to be with him. Last time I was on the run I had a goal to keep me going and I had Ali Khan there as a refuge from the ugliness I was dealing with. This time I have neither. Thank fuck I'm squatting in some deserted bedsit, with no one around to see how pathetic I've become.

I don't even know when it was exactly that I realized that I loved AK. Not, "he's me best mate" or "I'm so grateful for what he did" or "I'm just lonely because everyone else's fucked off," but I really _love_ love him. Because he's Ali Khan. Because he really sees me like no one else in my life ever has, except maybe my kid, once upon a time. "You only got to know you, mate"--he fucking _got_ me. Because he's beautiful, inside and out. Because he's honest, and loyal, like you just don't find any more--a good man. Because we just...fit.

Which I can never tell him. I mean besides the fact that I'm a bloke and he's Muslim and all that--there's just so much ugliness in me, that I've seen, that I've done. And, Christ, he'd probably run a mile if he knew that my early morning thoughts, when I'm just waking and half hard, are of him--those big, steady eyes seeing right into me, full lips, brown body and smooth skin. That since I've made my peace with Alison and Sarah, they're finally fading back the two years they've been gone; that he's the one I think of now when I wish for someone to hold, a companion, a loving fuck. I'll have to let it go someday, just be his friend, but right now I'm just not strong enough to do it.

This last call from Ali Khan, though, I still can't believe it! Two weeks where he's been the only thing on earth keeping me sane (if, indeed, I am, which right now I'm not too sure of), and this last call he tells me I'm a free man! I can't fucking wait to see him.

I come in for Danny Ford, and he tells me the full story. Yeah, he'd been pushing for it, Wallace too, from Scotland. But apparently Ali Khan had been pestering CPS on a daily basis about the fact that mob goons had been in the midst of torturing him, waving about his splinted fingers to full effect, and did they know the kind of sick bastard Elgin was, and what was the reduction in crime in Manchester now that just that one psychotic fuck was dead, and what the hell did they think they were doing bringing charges against me, who had already been sent down for two years for something I didn't do. On and on, driving them crazy. Then when Danny made it perfectly clear that they weren't going to get much help from police testimony in a trial, either, they just gave up, retracted the charges.

According to Danny, Annie'll still be sent down, more for her mob business, really, than for killing Joe. I can't decide whether I'm grateful to her for doing that bit of dirty work or angry that she didn't leave me the opportunity. She had her own reasons--her father, the betrayal and everything--though some of it _was_ for me and mine. Annie's always been in her own little world, governed by mob rules and money. We never fully trusted each other, but she did care for me as much as she could care for anyone.

Danny's last bit of news is that there's no way to make it up that I'd been wrongly imprisoned. But the rewards that had been offered for the arrest of the various mob figures will come to me, which will add up to a right nice nest egg. He looks decently embarrassed telling me about it, like he knows money doesn't make up for the loss of my life, or the death of my wife and daughter.

I would be decently embarrassed to get the money, except that I know what I want to do with it. Ali Khan's been thinking about moving over to Rotherham, to be closer to family, get himself and his sister away from the memories, the bad neighbourhood. He's mentioned in passing an older uncle with a local greengrocers on the high street in a nice residential area. I don't have much of a life any more, but what I do have is thanks to him. I would do anything for him.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's like night and day. I never realised how much the dirt and crime had worn me down, until I was set up in a clean, bright store, big windows with no bars on them, pleasant customers. All this, and Spanish, too. I practically need to pinch myself.

Anesha was thrilled to move to Rotherham, where she's living with uncle and auntie until they get her married off for real, which seems imminent. Spanish was a bit more reluctant to come, which is pretty funny since he was the one who split the reward with me, giving me the money to buy uncle out. But that was part of it; he didn't want me to think I owed him for the money and had to drag him along--the man with no life. He has no idea how much _he_ is _my_ life.

So I told him I need a partner I trust to help me run the store, that I'm tired of working all the shifts by myself. It threatened to get a little emotional when I told him I'd trust him with my life, and he hugged me and told me, "Same here, mate, same here." But that was that. Show over (all too soon, unfortunately), and then Spanish John and Ali Khan on the road together, like Crosby and Hope on those old late night movies. (Yeah, I know about the Spanish John thing. I asked him if he wanted me to call him Neil, but he said that he wanted to leave Neil behind--he was a sad old bastard with a bad reputation who'd been through too much shit. Blessings on Neil's soul, then, and I'll take John, if it's all the same to you.)

So we're in the store and I'm calling Skankie in Manchester, at the minicab office, and I can see Spanish on the extension in the back room, through the doorway. I'm selling the minicab business to Skankie, Marvin, and a few of the other drivers who want in.

"Maybe you can form an anarcho-syndicalist commune. Decisions on internal affairs can be ratified at a bi-weekly meeting with a simple majority vote..." Spanish's eyes are twinkling. I just roll mine.

"Hey Ali Khan, what's that crazy white mon going on about?"

"Do you still have that book of mine, Skankie? Chapter Twelve."

I can hear him flipping pages. "What, Monty Python?"

"Right. Monty Python and the Holy Grail--privileged class Oxford- and Cambridge-educated white men utilizing crude verbal and slapstick humor in an attempt to make a statement about the repression of the middle ages peasant classes by a hereditary aristocracy." I'm doing it just to wind them both up.

"Help, help! I'm being repressed!" John is butting in on the other line again, laughing.

I'm about to chime in with "Now you see the violence inherent in the system" but suddenly I can't get the words out. Our recent adventures with violence are still too fresh for me, though I'm happy to see Spanish let go for a moment and enjoy himself. Skankie fills up the space with, "Isn't that just like the English, to go on about the suffering of their white ancestors, as if that's any comparison to the British imperialism that resulted in the subjugation of black and brown peoples around the world?"

Spanish just salutes me with his tea cup and a grin, and lets me get on with yet another patented Ali Khan/Skankie (meaning mostly Skankie) socio-political meandering on the effects of colonialism on the Third World (which term has its own accompanying Skankie rant and let's not go there right now, thanks). As Spanish sips his tea and listens in, he just looks...happy. And I understand, then, a little, how the minicab office had been an island of normalcy and companionship, when everything else in his life was horror and isolation.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's faint, but I can hear the cries coming from overhead as I unload some boxes in the back room. A quick glance out front tells me AK's nephew or cousin or whatever extended relative it is that we've hired for the evening shift has the store covered, so I run upstairs to the first-floor flat that we share.

Ali Khan is in the grip of a nightmare again. I sit on the edge of the bed and talk to him soothingly. "It's all right. I'm here, you're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you. You're all right now." Over and over. I brush his hair back, stroke his brow, like I used to do with Sarah, like I do for him now. He slowly calms, as he always does at my voice.

It's hard to tell which nightmare this was. He's told me, now, the full story of Joe Connor's visit to the minicab office, which left me gobsmacked. If I could kill Connor again myself I would. But Jesus, the courage AK showed in the face of the capo of the Manchester mob and that psycho Elgin, and with a gun to his head! To protect me. How can I ever make that up to him? He amazes me, and Christ I'm in love with him.

I watch him settle into a more peaceful sleep.

Downstairs again, I help the kid close up, and make sure the store's settled for the night. I climb back up and change to pyjama pants. I stop in at AK's bedroom again, telling myself I want to make sure he's okay, but really to indulge myself, just a little, watch his face while he sleeps. His eyes come open a bit and he finds me there, so I blurt out, "You had a nightmare earlier. I wanted to make sure you're all right."

"Again?" He looks a little annoyed with himself, and a little sad, that something that is over and done with should still be haunting him when he's not consciously able to fight it. He looks up, hesitant. "Would you...stay with me?" I hardly dare to breathe, but he's shifting over on the bed. He's trying to be nonchalant about it, so I play along.

"Sure, wouldn't want you to wake the neighbourhood with screaming and all that." And I climb into bed with him, ordering myself strictly to behave.

I don't get much sleep through the night. It's been so long since I've slept with someone. Next to someone. You know what I mean. But AK doesn't have any more nightmares, at least. I must have drifted off in the early morning hours, because I wake up to find my arm flung over AK, and him lying on his back watching me. "Sorry mate." I pull my arm back and there's a flash over his face of...regret?

"S'all right, I don't have any macho Northern bastard reputation to worry about, and I won't tell anyone on you," he drawls gently, giving me my "Get Out of Jail Free" card. Except I don't want to just shrug it off; I want to find out if I really saw what I thought I did.

"What macho reputation? I was MI5." His blank look tells me he's not getting my meaning. "PR about the lavender menace to the contrary, MI5 prefer recruiting agents who are, uh, flexible. Bi. It's more _useful_ in various operations." The last just a little bit bitter. I keep carefully still so as not to spook him in case I've got the wrong end of the stick here, and watch his face as the penny drops. Then I have to know for sure, about him. "What about your respectable Muslim reputation? Have I ruined your honour?" That actually comes out a little more serious than I was trying for.

Maybe it's his usual wry delivery and I'm impatient, or maybe he's a little shy, but the words slowly drift out. "Spanish, add it up. Extended Muslim community matchmaking wildly, marrying daughters off left and right to nice successful Muslim businessmen. Me, still single." And his eyes stay on mine as I unravel his words and get to the meaning.

I slowly reach my arm back over him, and this time pull my body close to his, watching him carefully to make sure this is okay. My other arm tucks under his shoulders, and he brings his head up to lie on my chest, looking at me, Christ, like I'm the center of his world instead of he's the center of mine.

I wrap my arms around him and drop my lips to his brow, as he says again, "Spanish, I trust you with my life." And I _get_ him. He's saying, "I trust you with the rest of my life. I trust you with my heart."


	2. Chapter 2

I feel his kiss on my forehead and I shift up, rolling over and onto him until I'm straddling his hips. I lean down for a proper kiss. His lips press back against mine, and I feel like I've come home, like the universe has shifted and settled into alignment with an inaudible click. 

We try a few soft little kisses and I stroke his face, brush over his hair, curl my hand behind his neck. His arms are wrapped around my back, his right hand gently stroking and squeezing my shoulder. I part my lips a little and he leans in more, peeks his tongue into my mouth, takes me more firmly when my tongue meets his. And then we're pushing against each other, mouths open and searching, need and longing and desire all let out at once after months of frustration and desperation. I feel like laughing. If only we had known before!

"Ali Khan," he whispers, when we break a moment to catch our breath, pull back just a bit to look at each other in the pre-dawn glow. I hear want and gentleness together in his voice, but in his eyes I see pain, too. I touch his cheek with my fingertips. 

"Spanish, what is it?" 

His face grows sadder; he turns his head from me, and I swear it's like I can feel the new connections between us being ripped as he pulls away. "Spanish!" 

"I'm sorry." His voice is low, and hitches a little. "I shouldn't... I shouldn't have...." He won't look at me.

Forcing my tone as light as I can make it, "Bloody hell, you think I don't want this?" He doesn't respond, so I push just a little with my hips, half-hard against his belly. He winces, and my heart falls. " _You_ don't want this?" Even though I can feel him pressing against me as well. 

He turns quickly back to me at that. "Christ no, AK, of course I want you. God, you're the best... I mean..." His hands stroke up and down my back and he's looking at me with a wordless admiration. "It's just that..." His hands stop moving and his eyes drop and I see him close in on himself with that pain again. 

I slide back down to his side, still in his arms, and rest my head against his shoulder, tilting up to watch him. "Spanish, please talk to me. What is it?" 

"I'm not right for you, Ali Khan. I should never have come here with you." His eyes are closed, so he doesn't see my fear. "You have a good heart, you're a good man--you shouldn't be with someone like me. Violent. Horrible. You don't know the things that I've done." He finally opens his eyes but they're focused on some inner pool of guilt. And I don't even know where to begin. I mean, I know he's wrong, but I also see that this is something that a simple "Nuh-uh" isn't going to fix. 

As I'm searching for the right thing to say, the alarm clock goes off, and we both start. Spanish goes stiff and pulls to roll away, out of bed, but I hang on to him. "Stop a minute. Just...wait." He waits. I form my words carefully. "Do you care about me, Spanish?" 

"Jesus, AK, of course I do. More than anything." 

"Then please, promise me you'll stay and talk to me about it." Because I've realized that if he thinks he's so bad for me he might run, and if there's one thing he's expert at it's running and hiding. I could lose him forever. "Look, we're friends before anything; don't take away my best mate. I want to understand. I want to understand you. Promise me." 

I see his shoulders sag just a little and I realize I was right, he had been thinking of running. But that I've won a reprieve. "All right." He strokes my cheek lightly. "I promise I'll tell you all my awful secrets. Then maybe you _will_ understand." His voice is empty; he obviously believes that whatever he tells me will be worse than anything. But to me nothing could be worse than him leaving. He rolls to the edge of the bed, "Meantime, then, the shelves aren't going to stock themselves." 

"All right, I'll be ready in a bit. Put the kettle on, yeah?" 

"Sure." And I watch that beautiful back, pyjamas riding low on his hips, lean out of my bed and then he's up and away, out the door. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I stumble back to my room and lean face in towards the wall. This is a nightmare. This is what I get for letting myself daydream (and night dream and wet dream) about Ali Khan for so long. Shit! I never realized that it could actually come true! Somehow between my heart and my dick, in the heat of the moment my better judgment got overridden and now there is _this_ between us. This knowledge of what we feel like and taste like together, and _fuck_ is it good. And he wants it too. Dammit, he wants it too. 

It's not fair to him, and it's my fault. I came out to him, put it out there, because I'm a selfish bastard and I wanted him. 

I clench my eyes closed and my hands into fists. I can feel tears leaking out the sides of my eyes, and I want to shudder and gasp and sob. But I don't want him to hear, so I just bite into my fist until the waves of emotion pass through. I pull myself together and dress, wash my face, put the kettle on. 

We let the routine of the day cover the awkwardness--taking deliveries, stocking shelves, waiting on customers, placing orders, writing ledgers. For the first time I notice how we work together. We've only been in the shop for a month, and already we move through the day's business like it's choreographed, weaving in and out, one having to hand what the other needs before it's even asked for. Yeah, today we're a little more self-conscious, trying not to catch each other's eyes, not to notice hands, skin, accidental brushes. Still, we work together like twins with their own language. 

I take the afternoon break, fix us lunch and bring his down to him. He's off evenings, makes our tea. He's often to bed before I stop fussing about downstairs, but tonight he's sitting in an armchair in the lounge with a teapot and cups out. I kick my shoes off next to his at the door, take the chair opposite, and he pours for us. I promised, so here I am. 

"So, Spanish John, what's the worst thing you've done in your life?" No beating around the bush, then. 

"This morning I allowed you to believe for a moment that we could be together." He flinches at that, has to look away for a minute. It's God's truth, though. I could see how he looked at me when we kissed and what it did to him when I pulled away. Today, this moment, there is nothing I'm sorrier for. 

After a moment of silence, he steadies and goes again. "All right, what's the second worst thing you've done in your life?" Fine, I pull out the big guns. 

"I got my wife and daughter killed." 

"Neil. Thomas. Byrne." I look up in surprise. He never calls me that. "Did you take the knife to them?" 

I wince, but "No." 

"Did you know your MI5 boss was a traitor?" 

"No, of course not." 

"Did anyone in the mob, did Joe Connor or Elgin ever treat you as less than a trusted confidant, a friend?" 

I can barely raise my voice, but, "No." 

"It's off the list. _You_ were not responsible." 

"Ali Khan, what are you going to do, explain away everything I've ever done? I'm a killer. You are, well, whatever the opposite of a killer is, you're what a human being should be. You need to be with someone who is kind and decent and good." 

"Hmm, you may be right." I can tell I'm not getting through, though; he's just humouring me. "So, Neil Byrne, how many people have you killed in your life?" 

I don't hesitate. "Five." 

"All right, I know about Elgin; I saw that one. Who else?" 

"I was on assignment, on this guy who was bringing in illegals, although once he got their money he wasn't too concerned with whether or not they arrived safely on shore." 

"And what happened to him? What did you do?" 

"I found him with a girl, couldn't have been more than 14. He was going to take her payment in trade." 

We're both silent for a moment. "That's one. Three more?" 

"There was a drug ring, bringing in dirty packages, a lot of people on the street dying. We were taking down their operation and they fought back. They pulled guns, we pulled guns, we won. I did three of them." 

"So you've killed five people in your life." 

"Yes." 

"Four of those five were while on direct assignment with MI5." 

"Yes." 

"All four of them were criminals who had hurt numerous people and would hurt more if they could." 

"Yes, dammit. They were all scum, they deserved to die, I was doing my job and I was good at it! Is that what you're getting at? Is that what you believe?" 

"Not exactly." He looks like he's trying to put his thoughts into the right words. "I don't believe that anyone _deserves_ to die. But actions have consequences. To do something wrong--to rape a child, or deal drugs--the consequences of getting caught are fairly obvious." 

"It's not my fault, eh, it's theirs?" 

"In a way, yes. How do you feel about killing them? Did you enjoy it?" 

"Christ, no!" I think, though. "There was some...satisfaction." 

"Why?" 

"Because I was alive and they weren't. Because I'd stopped them from what they were doing. Because I'd accomplished my assignments. Because part of me did believe they deserved to die." 

He listens and nods. "Fair enough." 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"What are you doing, Ali Khan?" Spanish looks a little overwhelmed by my interrogation. I have to back off now, let both of us absorb what we've talked about.

"I'm trying to understand you. I want to know you, everything. This is enough for tonight, though; we still have a store to run come morning. Go get ready for bed. I'm sleeping with you tonight." At his quick "oh no" look, I clarify, "No funny business, just sleep."

"Great, and I suppose you'll say I'm not responsible for your nightmares either." 

"You are for this one." He's surprised. "What I'm more afraid of than anything right now is losing you." He opens his mouth to protest but I cut him off, "I know, you promised to stay, and I trust you. But I still won't be able to sleep tonight if you're not right there. I'm serious, no romance, and no murdering me in my sleep, you mad killer." He shakes his head at me, but doesn't protest any further. We're both knackered. 

In the middle of the night, I wake to find his arm over me again, and it costs me everything I have to carefully slide out from under and tuck it back on his side of the bed. I don't dare let him find himself 'molesting' me before I can work through this knot of guilt he's tied himself in. 

Come morning, we do our daily dance, running the shop. We're not quite as uncomfortable around each other as yesterday, but it's painfully clear that Spanish still believes he should go and I still desperately want him to stay. My nephew comes in for the evening shift, and spends his second night in a row watching us suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He knows something's wrong, but I don't tell and he doesn't ask. 

That evening I'm waiting with the teapot again, and Spanish flops tiredly into his chair. "Bless me Ali Khan, for I have sinned. It's been 24 hours since my last confession." 

"Too bad C of E doesn't do confessions. Maybe that would help." 

"It's not like I'm terribly religious, anyway." 

"I know." 

"It doesn't bother you?" 

"I'd rather know a good man who's not religious than an evil man who is." Before he can even open his mouth, "And don't start." 

"All right, what's on for tonight, the third worst thing I've ever done?" 

"Got anything on offer?" 

"I've never ranked them before." 

"We didn't talk about Elgin last night." I pause. I'm going to take a big gamble, but I want to push him. "Spanish, do you love me?" He turns to me in shock. I repeat, "Do you love me?" 

He drops his head. Quietly, "Yes." 

"Since when?" 

"Since forever, it feels like." 

"Since when, Spanish?" 

He's still barely whispering. "Since you told me you knew who I was, but you wouldn't turn me in, because you knew I wasn't guilty. When you switched motors with me to protect me." 

"And then Skankie told you I'd been taken by the mob." 

Almost inaudible, "Yes." 

"And you came after me; you knew they were torturing me, the man you loved." 

"Yes." His head is in his hands and I keep pushing. 

"Elgin had a gun and you didn't; you killed him to get to me." 

"Yes." 

"Then what." 

"Then, God, then I came in and you were on the floor, they were kicking you..." He swallows and I nod for him to keep going. "I made them cut you free and we got out of there." 

"OK, stop." He looks up. "The man you love is on the ground being beaten. He's been tortured." Spanish winces, not wanting to relive it. It's just abstract to me at the moment; I'm focused on him. "One of the top ten worst sights in your life?" 

He nods, "Top two." 

"And you had a gun on the men who were doing it." He nods again. "Men who were responsible for the second worst sight in your life. Spanish, you didn't kill them." He looks at me blankly. "Spanish John, if you didn't kill _those_ men, I'm sorry, but you're not much of an evil, vicious killer." 

"Should I have, then?" 

"For my part, no, and I was the one with the broken fingers. But what do you think?"

He doesn't answer, not out loud, and I can see the battle inside reflected on his face. The voice that's told him for so long he's a terrible person is fighting this new perspective. "Come on, John. Bed." We don't speak after that, just get ready for bed and go to sleep together.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night I dream about Alison, about every fight we ever had. In the morning I feel like hell, and I absorb myself in work, coming up with grotty cleaning jobs during slow periods to try to scrub my mind blank as well as the bottoms of the chiller cabinets. 

When I reach tea therapy that night, I just want to get it through to him. He's been twisting everything I say to explain it away because he's in love with me, I know he is, and he's afraid to lose me. Which is also my fault, because I'm a bastard, but I don't want to make it even worse. 

I start right in, "Look, AK, I know you have this idealised view of me, but you're wearing rose-colored glasses. If you really thought about it, you'd know I'm wrong for you." 

He doesn't even blink. "Who was the one who could see you didn't murder your family? Who saw you clearly enough for that?" 

"Fuck it, you _know_ what I'm like! You saw what I did to those two kids who tried to rob the office!" 

"Spanish, they threatened me and they shot you." His eyes glance toward my left arm, where I still have the scar. "Not to mention you'd been under extreme duress for a week. Actually, for two years and a week." 

"And what happened with me there, going crazy on those two punks? You got violent, you pulled out the gun! Can't you see it? I'm a horrible influence; I'll take everything that's kind and good about you and twist you into someone you never wanted to be." 

"Spanish, think! You stopped me! In the middle of your rage you stopped cold, and you didn't _let_ me twist. You didn't _let_ me become someone I never wanted to be." 

"Yet you could live with someone like me? Someone violent, who's killed? Who I am, it's against all your principles." 

He cocks his head to the side and thinks through it. "I reject that definition of yourself, and you already know why--we've covered that. Just look at the way you're tying yourself in knots over your past. That says more about your values than the words you're saying. Do we share _all_ the same values? No, but we do share many--friendship, trust, loyalty, honesty, doing the right thing, hard work." 

He looks up at me. "For myself, I'm not a violent person. Will of God, I wouldn't kill a man. But I live in the real world. I really have been thinking about this honestly for the past few days, for you." He pauses to find the words. "I know that there have to be police and agencies to protect people, and that those protectors are trained to use lethal force when necessary. I wouldn't work for MI5 myself, I'm not that kind of person. But I don't judge the people who do. It's like...a vegetarian who's married to a meat eater. People don't have to be exactly alike." 

He's not getting me, dammit. "AK, in MI5 training, they taught us a lot about psychology. They warned us about undercover work, about losing our identities. They said that whatever you act like, you eventually become. I felt it, part of me empathised with Frankie and Alan, Jacko and Joe. In some ways they were my family, sick bastards that they were. Alison hated it, she warned me that I would forget who I really was. All I am any more is this mix of the violent bastards I've worked with." 

"Spanish." His voice is soft. "Do you really believe that whatever you act like, you become?" 

"Yes, I've felt it; I know it's true! It's happened." 

"Well then, mate, what about this cover?" He waits until I look up. "Spanish John, neighbourhood grocer. Gets on well with the customers. Plays a little piano now and again. Lets his past be the past. Lives with the man he loves. Could you stand to become that man?" 

My mind goes completely blank. I don't even know what to think any more, and double over in my chair, burying my head in my arms.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Spanish collapses over his legs and I'm out of my chair and kneeling next to him immediately. He lets me pull him sideways and hold him, but he doesn't look up, doesn't move. So I stroke his hair quietly and just let him take in everything we've talked about over the last three days. Eventually my knees are about ready to give out, so I give him a little tug. "Come on, John. Let's get to bed." When I pull him up, he doesn't let go of my hand, so we walk together back to his bedroom. 

I'm too tired and he's too overwhelmed to properly change. We just strip down to boxers and climb into bed. He lays his arm across me, like he doesn't want to lose contact with me, but isn't ready to commit to a full cuddle. 

Sometime during the night, I wake up, and the full cuddle has happened. 

When the alarm goes off, I wake up with Spanish's arms around me, and my world is starting to right upon its axis. He just gives me a quiet, "Hi," and lets me up, obviously still not up for talking, but for the first time since that awful morning I can feel that he doesn't want to run. 

We don't talk much during the day; I let him work through this quiet mood he's in. But we keep ending up close to each other, like we're attracted by some kind of gravitational pull. When my nephew comes in, he watches us closely for a while, then gives over, obviously feeling satisfied somehow with what he's seen. 

That night Spanish comes up as soon as he locks up the store. There's no teapot, and I'm on the sofa with a book. Confessional's closed. I lay down the book as he comes over and sits next to me. "Right, last chance. Would you believe that we shouldn't be together because I'm an arsehole and an idiot?" 

"Are you kidding? That's just my type." 

It's not actually funny, but he laughs and then I laugh, and somehow we end up curled up together. 

"I'm sorry, AK. I just have so much shit inside, from the past." He links his fingers with mine, and he studies the back of my hand like he's memorizing it. 

"I know. I always knew. It's all right, mate. Do you trust me?" 

He gives a little laugh. "Ali Khan, I trust you with my life." 

So I shove him off of me and up, and pull him towards the bedroom, mine tonight. 

Here, where we had our first and last kiss, we make up for lost time. We kneel on the bed, reach for each other, and smash lips and teeth and tongues together. We push our mouths against each other like we're trying to prove we're really here, too wild to really explore and taste and feel. A break to regroup, and this time his eyes show need, but no doubt. 

I start to work on the buttons of his shirt, wanting more skin, more him. Shirt open but not off, and I run my hands around his chest, reaching to his back, then front again, down his belly and back up. I run my thumbs over his nipples and that gets him moving again. He crushes me in another kiss, this one more provocative, sliding tongue searching out all my secrets. I keep playing with his nipples, little pinches and pulls, and it does...interesting things to his breathing. Soon his whole body is writhing while he moans into my mouth, and that makes me crazy. 

He pulls away just long enough to pull my shirt over my head in one swift go, and get my trousers and boxers halfway down before I realize what's happening. Not that I mind, understand. He glances at my obvious arousal, comes in for another blazing kiss, then leans back again, hands on my waistband, and says, "Off." I don't waste any time getting the trousers kicked off, and he spends the time getting his shirt fully removed. Before I can get to his fly, he has me pulled full against him and his hands are exploring up and down my back from shoulders to arse while his mouth decides to see what my neck has on offer. A few moans and oh God's, actually, if you want to know. 

My hands are ranging over his back, one hand detouring up his neck and into his hair, where I take a handful and give a pull. That gets a "Nngh," but it sounds like a good "Nngh" so I keep on with that, hand wandering over his scalp, rubbing and tugging. Meanwhile, my back and arse are so sensitised by his stroking and scratching, I hardly know where my skin ends and his hands begin. 

His jeans aren't hiding much what's going on up front. There's nothing hiding me, of course, and the two hardnesses with only the one layer of denim between them are grinding against each other with their own agenda. In fact, my cock's agenda is feeling urgent, so I pull back a little. "Trousers off," I say, and go to work myself on the buttons. We get him denuded and the sight of his body makes my cock jump. I worry again about holding out. 

We lie down facing each other, and he seems to be okay with slowing it down a little, too. We try small, teasing kisses, little nips and licks. Our fingers trace lightly over arms, back, chests, hips. I trace his tattoo, his bullet scar, the knife wound I stitched for him. I brush his nipples again, then lightly pinch. He groans and pushes his hips forward, bringing his cock to meet mine, and there they go again, racing off. My leg goes over his hip, getting us closer. The feel of the bare skin of his cock against mine just builds me up faster, and I pull back, panting. "Wait. Give me a minute; I won't be able to hold out," and I reach back towards the bedside table drawer for supplies. 

Spanish reaches his hand to hold my arm. "Hang on a second. Is it okay if we just..." he glances down at where are hips want to join again, "this? For now?" 

"Yeah, sure, love." My cock certainly doesn't mind. We go for a long slow kiss as our cocks come back together. Spanish and I each reach a hand around the pair and try for a long, slow stroke, but soon enough we're both thrusting and jerking and I feel myself pulsing as I cry out. Spanish follows quickly behind, and we lean our heads together, recovering our senses and our breath. 

Eventually I lean in and kiss him, then reach back for tissues. We clean each other off, and mop up as best we can any wet on the sheets. Then it's little smiles, hands stroking faces and arms, kisses, until we decide to turn out the light and drift off. 

I rise slowly out of a dream and Spanish is spooned around me. The way he's stroking my arms, though, I think he's awake. I mumble, "Spanish?" 

"You awake, AK?" 

"Mmm hmm." I feel his erection pressing against my backside and I wake a little more. I roll to my back and look up at him in the faint streetlight from the window. I reach my hand over to pull his head down for a kiss, and to get his body to roll on top of mine, which it does. 

"Do you want to..." he murmurs against my lips.

"Mmm hmm." 

"Where are the..." 

I blindly reach an arm out towards the drawer, pull it open, grab a condom and lube by feel, and drop them on the bed next to us. 

"Mmmm." He's reaching my level of conversational ability, not that any's needed. 

His kisses have moved off my mouth and down my neck, licking and nipping and sucking. Then my chest and my nipples, and God that's good. I've gone from dream state to lust state with hardly any consciousness in between. His tongue swipes trails down my belly and suddenly swoops up my cock with a swirl and I'm in his mouth and out of my mind. I lose track of time while he licks and tugs and sucks, until I realise almost too late and try to push him off, but he pins my wrists to the mattress and swallows me whole as I come, and I'm breathless and boneless beneath him. 

He climbs back up me for a kiss, which is the least of what I want to give him, but will do for the moment. The next moment, still kissing, I reach down and feel him, still hard and wanting, so I spread my legs further and bring my ankles over his hips. I feel around for the tube of lube, and press it against his hand with a "Mmmm" that means, "Please, love." He gives an "Mmmm" back that means, "God yes." 

I hear the cap pop, and then feel a wet finger teasing my hole. My arse wiggles a little higher and I whimper a little until he pushes in. Then I moan. I'm lost in sensation again as he finger fucks me, adds fingers, stretches me, fills me. I'm not exactly conscious but I think I'm speaking my first real words since waking, "Please John, please. I need you. Now, please love." 

He groans with his need. His fingers are still in me, so the sound of the packet tearing must involve teeth. Soon his fingers withdraw and I feel his cock placed against me, waiting. One more "Please" and he's pressing into me and then everything's right with the world. 

Full of Spanish, my legs wrapped around him, I am high on love and sex, and probably sleep deprivation, but nothing else matters. He moves in and out of me--long, slow strokes; hard, fast ones; pushing all the way in and holding; and then rapid strikes against my spot that send me spurting against our stomachs and calling out his name. He kisses me as he continues to pound into me, whispering "Ali Khan, Ali Khan" against my lips. Then he's over the edge and crying out, "Oh Christ, AK," as I feel the waves of his climax inside me. 

As he slumps over me, I wrap my arms and legs tighter around him, holding him until he recovers a bit. He holds the condom as he pulls out, and I miss him inside me already. A toss in the direction of the rubbish bin, and then he's wrapping his arms around me, holding me tight. "All right, love?" 

"Mmm hmm." But that's not enough. "Love you, Spanish." 

"I know, AK," he whispers. "I love you, too." 

"I know." 

And we drift back to sleep.


End file.
